


World Of The Lost Ones

by booktick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:31:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9890285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booktick/pseuds/booktick
Summary: There was no girl with the name of Sansa Stark in the North nor from the South. Only a girl called Alayne Stone.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohmytheon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise.
> 
> A/N: As the story progresses, I'll be adding more tags to keep up with anything possibly triggering or uncomfortable The time in this chapter is sort of all over the place as well. So, I hope it isn't too confusing. This is an AU sort of, set in the future so Alayne/Sansa is much older.

* * *

Westeros would never be what it once was. The same could have been said when Aegon and his sisters burned the soil to gain their allegiances. She had read plenty of Rhaella Targaryen in books that not even Robert Baratheon could not take from her. Arya had her Visenya, and she her Rhaella. She, at the time, had pitied the woman. Now, she saw Rhaella for what she was. Rhaella Targaryen had fought tooth and nail to remain standing. It had not been Aerys to tear her from this world, only in the moment to give life had her own been released.

Alayne had wondered of all the things Rhaella would and could have done if she had carried on. The world may have been far different than it was today. The Riverlands may have been different the same way if her grandmother had lived. Alayne would not call herself a Targaryen nor Tully but she had known that burn. 

It had been a decade or more, whom could truly count the years by then, of bloodbaths and carnage, the fear and panic had roamed all along the seven kingdoms. It had been enough to travel into the Free Cities' wells. She could recall the screams and the riots, the memories would last her a lifetime and more.

There was no girl with the name of Sansa Stark in the North nor from the South. Only a girl called Alayne Stone. Alayne Stone carried herself well, head held high and eyes as sharp as claws. It was her mouth that shut away deceit from her ears and her mind that kept away the hands of the kingdoms at bay. She was called bastard, a title that weighed naught upon her head and heart. 

Alayne had conquered plenty and devoured knowledge easily. Petyr Baelish had purchased his knowledge but it was her gain that could not be bought. Her place in this world was not for sale for any man. Petyr Baelish had been a mere shadow compared to her night.

"My lady," Ser Sandor would grunt, "King's Landing calls upon you. For what it's worth."

"Does King Gendry find it difficult to protect his people that he need ask the Eyrie for protection?" She never raised her voice.

"Probably has another offer of the hand waiting."

Alayne did look at him though she kept her head up. Her back straightened and she blinked. Her head turned in his direction but her eyes stuck to her hands. Her fingers looked smaller with her mother's rings on them.

"Ned Stark was Hand to a Baratheon," her head turned away "He was rewarded by his own sword used against him."

"In the end, little bird," Ser Sandor walked down the steps from the throne, "It is my lady's choice."

Alayne stared at Sandor Clegane's back as he walked from the room. Her breathing returned to her a moment later. She was unsure when she had began to hold it in the first place. However, by dawn she sent word to Jon Snow. They would ride to Kings Landing by noon, regardless if her half brother joined or not. If King Gendry wanted to have her as hand, then he would begin by asking such a favor to her face. 

Even if Alayne rejected the proposal again, at least the Stag would have a story to tell his Kingsguard. She could imagine Ser Jaime would find it in his heart to bare the King a smile for such a tale. Though it had been some time since her gaze had found the golden lion. Ser Jaime would have plenty to say if she arrived in Kingslanding by her own horse. There would be no carriages for Lady Stone.

It was hours later, perhaps closer to dawn than evening, that she sat at her window. Her dress stained with ink much like her fingers from furious lettering, worn from its two day cling to her body. She had taken it upon herself to assist in the construction at the Eyrie after Ser Sandor left the main hall. Alayne had been pleased by the effort from them all, the workers had thanked her plenty. She needed no thanks. Their work had been enough. 

Alayne lifted her head up far enough so that the moonlight from outside danced across her face. Her eyelids drooped after a moment, exhaustion tugged at the lashes. She groaned deep in her throat, the action burned her throat some. Her palm lifted to her face as she roughly smoothed back lost strands of hair from her braid.

Her dyed hair was swung over her shoulder, tangled from her quick clumsy fingers two days earlier. She had not time to consider the effect it'd have. To be Lady of the Eyrie and the people all at once was plenty to make her head ache, hair was the least of her worries or troubles by this point. Any distraction though was welcomed now, in this short time before she would have to be Lady Stone again and not simply Alayne.

She had been taken, as many girls had in different ways, by him. He had gathered her up in furs and promises, to the Vale. His words had held little reward to her, it had been his want, his need and his pride. She had not been the one to wound it. In his eyes, that had been her mother's job. Oh, but how times had changed once Harry the Heir came along and her little brothel lord had to play nice to achieve more. She could remember how he lied through his teeth as he bared Harry a dozen smiles. 

His smiles with her had been his undoing. In every man she had known, the kettle was not too far from the pot. She had found Petyr Baelish's kettle when she took name as bastard for him. She had been his daughter, his child, and his key to the Vale. She had been stripped of her girlhood, and Sansa had ceased from this world. Alayne had discovered this world. She had made it hers. 

The creak of the bathroom door had brought her back to the present. She ran her knuckles over her lips briefly before her hands refound her lap. Her lips had tickled at the touch, it lingeres there much like a kiss. Alayne's tongue ran over her lips quicker than her touch had been before she glanced at her side. The sight of the handmaiden had her looking away from the directon of the tub all over again.

"My lady, shall I warm your bath?" The handmaiden had asked, her voice as soft as the belly.

"Yes. Thank you." Alayne nodded, "Only Ser Sandor is permitted to enter afterwards. Understood?"

"Understood, my lady." The handmaiden dared to smile, "I'll make sure no eyes wander even the doorknob."

Alayne did not smile back.

The bath had been drawn well enough, petals floated on the top and filled the room with perfumes. Her feet had already been bare as Alayne slid out of her dress of ruins easily. The fabric was moved to the side, out of the way, as she walked closer to the tub. Her fingers reached to brush against the water, heat immediately stung her tips. But Alayne did not pull away from the bath. Instead she straightened her back, placing one leg over the rim of the tub then another.

The Lady of the Eyrie stood there for what seemed forever before she carefully sat down inside the tub. The water slushed at the action. She lowered herself in the water until her chin nearly touched the heat. She drooped her eyelids again, let the steam of the bath gloss over her eyes. Within her grip was a sponge she repeatedly squeezed as she remained slouched in the water. Not a word given or left, only silence and the bath.

Alayne lifted her head as the bathroom's doors opened. In walked her hound and the doors slapped shut behind him. The Hound stood there for a moment's breath before he approached, his steps uneven and undignified to say the least. He walked with little grace, if any, and tossed his helmet onto the book covered chair near the tub, his eyes only on her. 

"Permitted in the baths of Lady Stone," Sandor grunted "The Eyrie's already talking about making me your guard."

"You are a Ser, aren't you?" Alayne turned her head away, "Sers can be guards. Besides. You've served well. The only opinion that should matter to you is your own."

"Aye."

Sandor looked from her to the barred window, to the shameless Moon. Alayne saw no cheeks of his warm, nor no frown upon his lips yet she wondered anyway. She wondered and for that she bared him another fixed stare. Her eyebrows had drawn together, furrowed in a frozen state. Her lips pressed into a firm but thin line before she spoke again. 

"Will you go to King's Landing, Ser Sandor-"Alayne tilted her head back, her hair slipped into the depths of the water "-Or will you remain as you have before."

Her arms rested on the sides of the tub, water hid the rest of her flesh below. She never once let her gaze leave the Hound, nor let him forget whom he spoke to. Sandor Clegane was the one who looked away, his grunt rough as it left his lips. He looked at his boots instead, battered lips twisted into a makeshift frown. Alayne's lips tugged at the expression.

"I will go where my lady likes-" Sandor lifted his head, glazed eyes on her "-Whenever my lady likes."

"Good." Alayne finally shut her eyes, listened to her Hound's soft pants. 

The armor would need to be lightened. Alayne did not want constant huffs breathed down her neck all the way to Gendry's red doors. Gendry and his golden hand, they'd be quite taken by the sight of the entourage. Alayne would have to wear Stark colors to befit the meeting. She remained in the tub for another hour, deep in thought on what to do for the travel.

It had taken only a few hours after dawn to pack the chests and Alayne had taken only a few personal belongings separate from them. She had gathered up the trunks herself, enough to house a cub or two and perhaps even Sandor Clegane himself if she were feeling up to a challenge. Alas, she had taken to her chambers with the then empty trunks and her company had been mostly them. She was used to the spasmodic silence in her keep, even in her own chambers.

As the Eyrie had grown quiet after the agreement to travel to King's Landing. The stone walls seemed, somehow, colder and the floor, somehow, closer to the ears. Everything was smaller and further from the sensation of home. Alayne had considered to call for the fireplaces to continue to be lit, to continue customization within the castle walls. However, by the end of the hour, Alayne called for all the furniture to be covered in cloth and only construction to be permitted to continue at the keep. Hopefully, by the time she returned, if she returned—the construction would have ceased and been complete. 

“We shall keep it well-lit and safe for your return, m’lady.” The gardener had smiled at her earlier.

Alayne had graced him with a smile and a pat to the arm. After the Gardener, whom had given a crooked grin in return, had left, she resorted to packing her own. The handmaidens had tried their best, to perform their daily tasks, their duty. However, Alayne had sent them away, hushed lectures on need to be alone and to rested for the journey to come. They had, the whole lot of them, nodded and curtsied before her as they took their leave of her. 

She had placed them both inside of her velvet bag her mother’s ring and the doll her father gave to her years before. She would keep them both inside the bag, tied shut for no prying eyes to witness such items. They would be her secret, a truth for her and her alone. Not even Ser Sandor Clegane would have known what was inside her velvet bag. Alayne thought to place the bag inside her luggage though, in the end, decided to keep it slipped inside the pockets of her dress. The dress, hand stitched herself, could have hidden a dagger or two along with the hottest of pies. She had taken great care in making them barely visible unless the person was familiar with her, no one would think twice of taking a second glance at her dress.

She patted her pockets before she started to fold her cloaks with careful need. She could have felt the velvet bag against her thigh, even with the fabric of the pocket itself in the way. It would occasionally pat her leg as she moved about. After a few more articles of clothing were folded and placed inside the trunk, Alayne stood up once again. Her eyes wandered over the dozens of fabrics inside the trunk as she took a turn of foot from it. Her steps were even as ever as she neared her wardrobe.

Alayne opened the doors as slowly as she could manage. It was easier this way, to avoid any noise from the action. Inside laid the music box, not quite forgotten and yet seemed so far away from her. She reached and picked it up carefully so, before she opened it. The music started to play but it was what was laying inside the box that mattered to her. The tiniest of tied paper rolled up and a red ribbon around it. She removed it and shut the box, placed it back inside the wardrobe and shut the doors. 

This would not have been an action that would have been performed even in front of her own brothers. She sat back down in front of the open trunk, her fingers pulled the ribbon until its’ knot loosened and gave way. She let the ribbon drop to her lap before she started to unroll the paper. She had to hold the top and the bottom to read what was inked onto the paper itself. The stamp had not been placed on this paper, not that it could have been. The words had been enough for her to realize whom had wrote such a note to her. The raven that delivered it had not rested with the rest of them in the courtyard, instead landed at her window as she took thread and needle to fabric days before. 

Alayne read over the words once and twice and again before she rolled the paper up again. She plucked the ribbon from her lap and retied the note. She reached into the trunk and placed the note between two cloaks, even adding an additional dress nearly on top of them to conceal it better. She would have to address that later on, when it was not a matter of travel and business to attend to. Though it itched at her fingers up to her wrists as she pulled her hands away from the trunk. She nodded to herself, a form of self-acceptance and understanding at her refusal to quicken to her quill and ink and relay a reply to the note.

This was not the time for dallying, or the time for something as frivolous. 

After another hour passed, Alayne had taken to the halls. Her steps had echoed upon the marble floor as she neared the main hall, the noise pinched at the inside of her ears. However, she never once flinched at it, even as each step seemed to grab at her ribs and yank away. She could only imagine how it would be to walk the Red Keep again, heels smacking against the floor as she neared the would-be, could be, Stag with a crown. He had not been the one to name him King, nor had she been the one to name her Lady. Their titles came, much like with her steps then, with a pinch to the ears. She would have to bring Gendry another pot of honey, to sweeten his tooth before they exchanged words in private. 

Arya would have grimaced at the thought, though she had no sister here to yank her arm and spat at her shoes in protest. Not that Jon Snow would have been any better, to hear how his sister took word with the King in the South. She would have thought all to be pleased, to reunite House Stark with House Baratheon, as her father had with Gendry Waters’ father. But Gendry had not known his father, as he had taken hammer to anvil and kept his head low with the brand of bastard. Alayne thought of herself, and her position when she had first stepped into the Eyrie. Had she not been branded as bastard all the same? Orphan and bastard, either title had been enough to have Myranda at her heels from the start. The friend of a friend who had had so many suggestions for what to do that Alayne did not have enough fingers to count them all.

The same way that some had suggested to her that she should wait, to better prepare for such a journey, that such eagerness would have seemed too foolhardy. The idea that King Gendry would  be waiting at the port, ready to comment on her quickness nearly had her in laughs. Alayne had only responded with a stare and they fell silent.

They had left by noon that day, the letter to Snow had been sent at dawn as instructed. She rode her horse a great deal that first day and it had indeed been, at least, a proper full day on the road before they took camp beside the trees. Alayne had found the riverbank a few hours after she had woken from her long needed slumber by the Hound. Her dress changed to something looser, heels now slippers and hair hung past her hips. Alayne felt at ease.

The riverbank flowed with pebbles and wood, up to the North. Alayne watched as the occasional frog hopped off from the various piles of mangled sticks. Her fingers brushed over the wet grass she sat upon for a moment, her eyes on the steady stream. Then she reached, fingertips glided over the cold. She felt the splash of sensation rush through her arms immediately. 

Her fingers pulled back onto her lap, wet and glistening. Her lips tugged into an almost smile. She could have sat like this for hours, if not days, simply enjoying the fresh air and peace of it all. But this was not a world for moments rest, not yet, perhaps never. Alayne did not know.

She lifted her head until her chin pointed to the clouds. A hand pressed against her forehead to block the sunlight from harming. She watched as the birds flew by, no cares for what Westeros had become  They could go anywhere, anytime and not realize what had taken place on the soil. 

"Are you well, m'lady?" 

Alayne does not look over her shoulder, instead bowed her head and eyed her reflection in the water. Her hair was brighter in this light much like her mother's. Catelyn Stark never sat by riverbanks and watched the clouds. Her lady mother had prayed by trees and sewn with needle by the fireplace. She couldn't remember her mother's laugh.

"Yes, I am. I'd like to be alone." Alayne replied. 

"Ser Sandor-" The handmaiden stepped closer.

"The Hound will wait." Alayne interjected. 

"M'lady?"

"He can wait-" Alayne turned her head to look at the handmaiden "-As he has before and will again. Let him wait."

She looked back to the crackling stream. Her eyes shut for a moment before they reopened again. Her throat was so dry as she swallowed. The bile in her chest rose some when the name long since dead crossed her mind. Alayne had not noticed how tightly her fingers gripped the fabric of her dress. 

"Now go." Alayne's voice had been hushed, as if it were a secret.

The handmaiden nodded once and turned, scurried off from Alayne's presence. Alayne carelessly wiped her hair from her wet cheeks, her sleeve was rough as she wiped her face. She pulled back from the stream and laid flat on the slippery grass. Her fingers gripped the soil and held the grass with it in her palms.

Her eyelids drooped after the second passage of a breeze. The chill fell over her cheeks and lips, tickled the flesh so much she dared to smile. Alayne watched as the clouds mingled with the sunlight, causing a shade to fall over the once bluest of skies. She could see the Sun anyway, still lingering but not seen. Always there but not quite heard. That had been a familiarity for Alayne, one she preferred not to visit. 

Did the Hound watch the clouds same as she? Did Gendry? Much she knew of King Gendry had come from her sister's word of mouth in the first place. The Hound though, he had been hers and hers alone. Arya took no pleasure in the presence of such a person. 

Arya rarely spoke her own name. Though Alayne could not speak against such action. The name of Stark had not crossed her lips or most of others, if not all. Alayne had taken the name of Stone for herself gladly and willingly. She could not imagine being whom she was before. This did not change the fact she would always be of her mother and father, of their House and the North.

She would remain as she'd always been: A Stark at heart, if not by name. Though there was her brother, Rickon, still young and King in the North. He bared the name proudly, a badge of honor, upon his cloak and banners. King Gendry and he had shook hands and signed a piece of paper. Her father signed a piece of paper once.

"My lady." A great shadow stood over her, called for her, "The horses are growing agitated."

The familiarity of the gravel behind it betrayed the shadow. She need not even look above to recognize it. Ser Sandor had been sent to fetch her, as one might a child. Alayne was no man's child. Nevertheless, she did not frown or bare any sneer in it. The idea had been humorous, to a degree, due to its' heavy inaccuracy. Her lips tugged and she found herself smiling. 

"I shall have to kiss you, Hound, for being as courteous as to find me." She replied.

"Didn't think to, one of the flowery handmaids asked me to." Sandor grunted.

Alayne would not mistake her kindness as ignorance. She could not imagine Sandor Clegane stomping off with his sword to gather her up out of his own want. The only reason he would be if danger was afoot. Alayne saw no danger from the clouds or the grass. Though she'd imagine the handmaiden whom had asked her Hound to come had seen nothing but danger from him.

"Are you going to stand, Lady Stone," Sandor had asked, "Or must I carry you to your horse like in your songs?"

Alayne opened her eyes, as she had not realized she shut them at all. Her lips parted, at first nothing came from them except for her own breathing. She took another gulp of air as she swallowed right after. Her throat had grown dry during her rest and it burned to do much with it.

"What songs, Ser?" Alayne's lips tugged again.

Sandor huffed and began to reach but Alayne had been quicker. Her hand pressed against his chest as he reached for her. Alayne remembered now why she hated his armor. All his huffing and puffing around would not do. She would have stripped him then and there if they'd been alone. Her instinct said to anyway but armor was a requirement for someone like Clegane. Without armor, how would he hide that pride of his.

Alayne sat up and stood with a heavy sigh, her dress stained by the grass anyway. Alayne patted the man's chest, the armor had rattled some. It would need to be improved once they reached King's Landing, regardless if Sandor had wanted the change or not. She need not a guard whom could be taken out by a simple thrust of the hand. Perhaps King Gendry would volunteer to put his skills forth in the improvement.

Now that was certainly the best joke she'd made to herself in months.


End file.
